“Hello, Elise,” growled one big bluecoat.
“Hello, Jack.”
‚ÄúWhat‚Äôs this?‚Äù and he peered at Mrs. ¬ÝCresswell, who shrank back.
“Friend of mine. All right.”
A horror crept over Mary Cresswell: where had she lived that she had seen so little before? What was Washington, and what was this fine, tall, quiet residence? Was this‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚ÄúNell‚Äôs‚Äù?
‚ÄúYes, this is it‚ÅÝ‚Äîgoodbye‚ÅÝ‚ÄîI must‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äù
‚ÄúWait‚ÅÝ‚Äîwhat is your name?‚Äù
“I haven’t any name,” answered the woman suspiciously.
‚ÄúWell‚ÅÝ‚Äîpardon me! Here!‚Äù and she thrust a bill into the woman‚Äôs hand.
The girl stared. “Well, you’re a queer one! Thanks. Guess I’ll turn in.”
Mary Cresswell turned to see her husband and his companions ascending the steps of the quiet mansion. She stood uncertainly and looked at the opening and closing door. Then a policeman came by and looked at her.
“Come, move on,” he brusquely ordered. Her vacillation promptly vanished, and she resolutely mounted the steps. She put out her hand to ring, but the door flew silently open and a manservant stood looking at her.
“I have some friends here,” she said, speaking coarsely.